I pulled out a small shard of glass that was stuck in my hand, and wrapped it in tissues that I found in my pocket. My body was ringing with soreness like some high-pitched signal. I pulled down my jeans a little and checked my wound; it wasn’t bleeding, but at some point it must have, the bandage was red through. I readjusted it and carefully pulled up my jeans.
After a few minutes, and a few painkillers, I settled down enough to think over what Hughton had said. Despite the likelihood of him trying to keep me there until the police arrived there was something in his tone which made me believe him. That the symbols were real and that there wasn’t much I could do. I thought of how he’d said people could be affected without considering what they were doing, and remembered Monika. Perhaps she couldn’t be blamed either. Confused, frustrated, but still determined, I pulled my battered body up and kept going.
Chapter 22
The route to the address that Karim had given me, which I suspected was Bianca’s home, led past my apartment. I decided to stop off and clean myself up a bit before paying her a visit. The decision was almost telepathic; as I exited the lift I saw that the front door was open. I pressed up against the wall beside it and listened for some sound from inside. It was silent. Slowly, I pushed open the door and entered.
The place was trashed. A chair from my room lay half-broken in front of the entrance, the clothes rack that stood outside the bathroom had been tipped over into the passage, and even the photos on the walls had been ripped away and tossed to the floor. I went to Vicky’s room; it was even worse. Her books and CDs were torn and smashed everywhere. Her bed had been turned over, boxes of her toys opened and discarded, even her teddy bears ripped open. Her mattress stood against the wall, large incisions had been made from top to bottom, and much of the foam ripped out. My room was in the same state, the mattress ripped open right on the bed, thick springs extending from it like twisted antennae. Extra care had been taken with my cupboard and desk, the wood splintered and destroyed. I kicked through the rubble, absorbing the destruction.
In the living room everything became clear. The computers were gone. Josie’s white laptop and the old desktop Vicky used. They had left the keyboard and monitor, cables extending to the middle of the room; the intruders not even bothering to unplug them. I checked back in my room but I knew my battered laptop wouldn’t be there either. I set right the couch which had been tipped forward and cut into, placed the cushions back, and dropped down onto it.
Buzzcut. It had to be. Nobody else would have been able to cause so much damage in the few hours I had been out, let alone know that I would be out. Nobody else that I could think of, at least. I tried calculating the damage—how Vicky would feel if she saw it. I ought take her to a hotel for a week or two, perhaps, maybe a holiday. I couldn’t let her see this.
My head thumped. I got up and poured water into my mouth from the sink. Looking out over the damage again something caught my eye. The printer was just where it always was; unmoved, and loaded with paper. Nothing else had survived in the room. Even the TV had a large crack across the screen. Examining closer, I remembered what it was that struck me: The copies of Josie’s book were gone. I had over-cautiously printed five the night before. Whoever had invaded the flat must have seen the papers and found what they needed, yanking the computers out and leaving without further destruction.
Why would Sebastien have wanted the book? Or perhaps it wasn’t even Buzzcut. I doubted that Sebastien was the instigator, Josie’s laptop hadn’t had much use before I took it, although he may have only realised its importance too late. Whatever the reason, my blood was now up, and I decided to leave the damage until later. I grabbed something to eat and headed back out.
The building was relatively new. Its pristine, yellow bricks and clean, glass front at odds with the weary, cemented grey and black of the world around it. Obviously a recent development, filled with singular small apartments for the influx of students to the area. There was a supermarket in the building, merged with the entrance, which no doubt did great business. They had even moved a bus stop from a junction fifty yards further down to the very front of the entrance.
I hadn’t visited the area in a long time, having only passed through on the way to the centre of the city occasionally, but the sense of a new atmosphere was definite. Passionately unique teenagers entered, exited, laughed and spoke between the bus stop and entrance. Hurrying, insular individuals passed through them discretely, their inability to cope with the forced intimacy of the city written all over their faces. I hunched down slightly and passed through the entrance as one of them, finding myself in a lobby which led in three different directions. I approached a couple sitting against the glass.
“Hey. Do you know where Bianca Azavedo is?”
“Who?”
“Bianca Azavedo. Brazilian girl, thick black hair, about this high?”
“Sorry.”
I wandered around for a few minutes, adjusting to the long noisy halls. Stopping anyone who looked popular enough to know where Bianca might be. Eventually someone with a thick, Spanish accent seemed to know who I was talking about.
“The lesbian?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“She is way up on the fifth floor. Or, if she no there, try the bar.”
“Which bar?”
“Madre.”
“Madre?”
“My-Tah.”
“Mitre, right.”
He gave me a dirty look.
“Thanks.”
I took the lift to the fifth floor. It was a long corridor that shot off again in three directions. I estimated fifteen apartments on the fifth floor alone. I began knocking on doors. Eventually someone answered who knew Bianca’s door number—five one three. I found it and knocked. Nobody answered. After a full minute of knocking I decided to try the bar.
Just before I turned away I noticed something. Hopefully, I fumbled around my coat pockets, and found what I was looking for. The door knob, like many in multi-apartment buildings with main entrances, was of a construction that had its screws facing outwards for easy removal. It was an oversight rarely made anymore, not in poor neighbourhoods anyway, but it made sense in this new and appealingly open dorm. I stuffed my pen-knife into the screw heads and twisted, struggling slightly to gain a good grip upon the tapered head, but eventually loosening the clean screws. Once the door knob was removed I checked the hallways, and with a loud clack managed to unbolt the lock from the inside.
The room was no more spacious than I had thought, but it had its own small kitchen area and its own cupboard-sized bathroom. Posters and records covered the walls and a bass guitar leant up against the corner beside the window. Aside from a desk filled with books and clutter it was tidy and sparse. Hurriedly, I began checking the drawers and cupboards. I had no idea what I was looking for, but the gut feeling that Bianca knew something important was unshakeable.
I picked up a notebook, a pen pinned between some pages, which lay next to her laptop. It was full of sketches, notes and pieces of clippings stuck crudely to its thick pages. I scanned it for any words I might recognise: the names of the symbols, or people related to them, but it was a jumbled mess. I continued searching, the time it was taking beginning to frustrate me.
Beneath her mattress I struck gold. I pulled out a large, thick book with expensive-looking binding. I knew it was her diary before I opened it. It was written in another language, jagged and large writing. I flicked through slowly, examining each page. There were mentions of Josie. Words like ‘amo’, ‘namorada’, ‘morte’ and ‘bonita’ that I had heard before but didn’t understand surrounded her name.
I slammed the book shut and shoved it back under her mattress. Whatever it was, I wouldn’t know until I spoke to Bianca directly. I closed the door, dropped the handle in front of it, and made my way out.
The Mitre was barely a street away from the student dorms. Just large enough to serve as a halfway-house between the dorms and the rest of the city,
but just old enough to appeal to the students who had come to London from around the world. I stepped between the smokers and pushed through the heavy wooden doors. It was barely lunchtime but the place was packed. Groups squeezed into cubicles, stood nearly three deep at the bar, and ate ferociously from hot, greasy plates at the tables by the windows. Weaving between the crowd I scanned the pub from wall to wall, searching for that lustrous thick hair that had stood out to me in the café.
“What can I get you?”
I was at the bar, and an idly chatting barmaid had disengaged from an idle customer to serve me.
“Nothing, thanks. I’m looking for someone.”
“Who?”
“Bianca Azavedo. You know her?”
“No, sorry.”
I returned to scanning the room, circling the edges where the booths were. In the corner, a large collection of students sat; sprawled out and relaxed, empty glasses covering the tables between them. They had obviously been there the whole day, and I reckoned of the ten or so there was a good chance one knew of Bianca if she came to the bar at all.
“Excuse me.”
The bar was loud, and the group engrossed in themselves.
“Hey!”
A guy with a beard and thick-rimmed glasses turned to me.
“Yes?”
“Do you know a girl called Bianca Azavedo?”
“Sorry?”
“Bianca Azavedo.”
A couple of the people next to him noticed me.
“Wait a minute. Guys. Guys. This guy wants to know if we heard of a…Who?”
“Bianca Azavedo.”
“Bianca Azavedo. A girl?
“Yeah.”
“Ha! Is it a girl?! How many boys called Bianca do you know, Charlie?”
“Shut up.”
“Is that the Italian girl?”
“What one? Oh, no. Not her. That’s Isabelle.”
“Wait. Sanjay. Oi! Do you know a girl called Bianca Azavedo?”
“I don’t. Why?”
“This guy wants to know.”
As they continued to talk amongst themselves, rifling through their collective memories, I noticed a well-dressed, dark-skinned boy in the corner. His hair was shiny and peaked, his eyebrow pierced. He spoke with an attractive Asian girl. Something drew me to him, as if we had met already. I caught his attention.
“Hey, do I know you?”
He looked at me curiously, noticing my arm, and shook his head.
“What’s your name?”
“Abdi. You?”
“Abdi Bedard?”
“Yeah. Who are you?”
The rest of the group had re-engaged with one another now, forgetting me and my request.
“I need to speak with you. You mind coming outside for a second?”
“Yeah, sure.”
He said something to the Asian girl and they both made their way towards me, tip-toeing between the extended legs and crowded area of the group. We exited the pub together and found some space amidst the smokers. Abdi took out a cigarette, handed one to the Asian girl, and offered one to me.
“No thanks.”
“So what do you need?”
He lit both of their cigarettes and took a long puff, exchanging a brief, flirty smile with the girl.
“What happened to you? Where did you go?”
“What? I’m right here.”
“The past few months. Where have you been? Karim was looking for you everywhere.”
At the mention of his brother Abdi groaned melodramatically. Smiling almost as he did so.
“Oh, man. Are you a friend of my brother? Oh, crap.”
“I’m not a friend, but he asked me to keep an eye out for you.”
“Look, man. When you see my brother again tell him everything’s cool. I’m fine, he doesn’t need to worry. I’ll come and see him soon. Ok? Tell him that.”
“Ok. Next time I’m at the hospital I’ll tell him that.”
“Hospital? What?”
“Yeah. He’s in the hospital.”
“What, is he sick?”
“He had an accident.”
“What happened to him?”
“Why don’t you go and find out?”
“Man, I can’t deal with that.”
“Deal with what?”
“Pfft.”
He shook his head dismissively at the Asian girl, who remained silent but for a sympathetic eyebrow raise.
“So what have you been doing all this time?”
“You wouldn’t even want to know.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, man. There’s stuff going on that you wouldn’t even be able to handle.”
“Stuff like these symbols?”
“What?”
“Symbols making people do crazy things?”
“Yeah. What, how do you kno—”
I twisted his collar and slammed him up against the pub window.
“Listen to me you smug little shit. You’re going to see your brother. I made a promise I’d bring you to him and I’ll do it even if it means I have to carve you up and deliver you in pieces.”
I slammed him against the window again, taking the breath out of him.
“Ok, man! Easy! I’ll go. I was going to go anyway. I’ll go tomorrow.”
“Right now.”
He grimaced. I thought about ripping out his eyebrow piercing, and he seemed to sense it.
“Ok, man! We’ll go. Ok. Christ.”
I let go of his collar, allowed him to correct his clothes, and took a hold of his arm.
“Jesus, man. Let me go, I’m not going to run away.”
“This way.”
I pulled him with me, dragging him forward whenever he fell behind. The hospital was quite a way. I led him to a station. We passed the turnstiles and boarded a train in silence.
“This is crazy. You don’t even understand.”
“What don’t I understand?”
He said nothing, hanging his head and sulking instead. We got off the train and went to another platform to change.
“How do you know about the symbols anyway, man?”
“Long story. Everyone I meet seems to know about them though.”
“Pfft. Yeah.”
“What are you doing with them?”
“Oh, man. Are you kidding? I’m not doing anything with them. I’m fighting against them.”
His reply shocked me. I didn’t even notice the train roll by the platform.
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s go, man.”
We boarded the train together. It was crowded, so Karim and I ended up squeezed into a corner by the doors.
“What do you mean, fighting them?”
“Shh! Keep it down, man.”
I spoke quietly.
“Go on.”
“I can’t say.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know what side you’re on.”
“I’m not on anybody’s side. I just don’t like what I’m hearing about these things.”
“Me neither, man. That’s why we’re trying to fight them.”
“Fight them how? Who? I don’t get it.”
“Look, it’s like this. There are these groups that started tagging these symbols in a lot of places. Then more and more and more—like a gang. It became like a gang sign, right? Now, though, these people started to do all kinds of crazy shit. Hijacking cars, burning shops, beating people up. Real heavy stuff.”
“I know all of that. So what are you doing?”
“Well, we’re trying to fight back. It’s like, all these kids are using these symbols like some kind of banner to just go crazy with, right? They’re already angry with the world, and society, and politicians, and everything. But this is like a trick. They want the kids to go crazy, so they can criminalise them, and have an excuse for the police state, man.”
“You sound paranoid.”
“Don’t believe me then. You know the symbols make people go cr
azy though, right?”
“Go on.”
“Anyway, we’re trying to come up with something different, persuade people not to get tricked by these symbols. Be angry, but at the right people. In the right way. You get me?”
The train stopped at our station. Pushed by the flow of people we were separated for a few seconds. When we drew close and walked together again Abdi continued where he left off.
“Not just kids, man, but all kinds of people. They’re already disillusioned with how things are, but they don’t know why, and they don’t know what to do about it. That’s how it works right, they beat you so bad you don’t even know why you’re angry. These symbols though, they’re obvious. You can see the effects on everyone. It’s one step too far, man.”
“How do you know you’re not being affected?”
“Cause we’re against it, man.”
“Against it, for it; seems to me like if you give a shit either way it’s got to you.”
“You don’t get it, man.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
We took the stairs up and out of the tube station. It had begun to rain slightly, the brief winter light already waning to a dirty-grey. I took Abdi’s arm and pulled him in the direction of the hospital.
“Enough, man! I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Take a look at this.”
I pulled out the now-crumpled pages of Josie’s book and handed them to him, ready to catch him if he decided to flee. He took them eagerly and skimmed through.
“Jesus! Who wrote this? This is just what we’re talking about!”
“You think it helps?”
“Oh, man! This is it! This is, like, proof. You could take this stuff in court, man! It better not be a hoax or something. Can I have this?”
I snatched the papers back from him.
“It’s not a hoax. If it’s on these papers it’s true.”
“You gotta let me show those papers to some people, man. It’ll explode.”
I eyed him for a few seconds. His enthusiasm was child-like, too much so to be false.
Delete-Man: A Psychological Thriller Page 24